40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 850, Part 21: Interlude - The Cocktail Party (Part 3, 12)

Lost in thought, Khalil slowly leaned back and slumped into the chair.

A very important reception was about to begin, but he had not yet changed into his formal attire and was still wearing his black clothes, looking as if he were going to a funeral.

Several documents lay spread out in a fan shape on the thick, brown desk in front of him. The documents were uniformly pale white and had a thin, soft texture, which meant they all came from the Scarena family.

This is a paper industry family that has emerged in recent years. Four years ago, they officially became the unified supplier of all official documents within the solar system. They won the bid in that tender open to all paper mills within the solar system.

Today, the Scarena family is accumulating wealth, power, and fame at an unimaginable pace—which will certainly raise some issues, given the complexities of human nature, but Khalil has no intention of considering the consequences. At least for now, the Scarena family remains diligent and adheres to the rules and regulations.
If in the future they become perpetrators and slave owners wielding whips and knives, then naturally someone will patiently sharpen their swords and set off at night.

However, rather than stopping it, what he really wanted to see was 'prevention,' and he wasn't the only one who thought so.

"Reform the system."

Khalil Lohals, the Grand Judge, Chief Justice, and the sole investigator of the Independent Oversight and Investigations Department within the Ministry of State, chose to abandon his thinking.

He stood up, organized the documents, and then, without a word, pushed open the door and left the legal department headquarters in Duns A-2. He had temporarily requisitioned this empty office, intending to use the time before the reception to review all the documents, but his efforts had failed miserably.

Judging from this, he will probably have to work overtime after the party ends.

No one knew the sorrow of the Grand Judge, who had been reduced to a large document processing unit, at least not the huge, dark black hovercar that was driving from the street corner.

It slowly came to a stop in front of him, and the door, so thick it didn't look like a civilian vehicle, slid open with a hum, like a monster revealing its gaping maw.

The Grand Inquisitor stepped in without fear, not even bowing his head.

The door closed behind him, the engine began to gently accelerate, and they moved slowly through the city. He then went to the back of the car and opened a small door.

Beyond that was a space that was neither crowded nor spacious, with a full-length mirror embedded in the wall at the end, and various clothes hanging on the aisles on both sides, corresponding to different occasions.

All of this caused the Grand Inquisitor to show an unusual look of fatigue, but he still picked out a set of clothes hanging under a gold-embossed high Gothic label that read 'formal dress'.

Soon, a gift that would have been categorized as 'capable of strangling or suffocating' in the old evaluation system of the Eighth Legion replaced the solemn and gloomy uniform of the Inquisition.

Gazing at his reflection in the mirror, Khalil's expression was quite subtle, containing a hint of both amusement and exasperation.

"In reforming the system, why not start with the tailors? Can't they make a set of formal wear that's comfortable to wear?"

The old man muttered something as he turned around and opened the dressing room door. The gold cuffs and the touch of red at the collar stood out against the predominantly black and midnight blue, yet without disrupting the harmony. He still appeared expressionless, but he would likely give himself away once he entered the banquet hall.
Of those present, only a few could not discern his true emotions.

He was aware of this, but he didn't want to hide it. If anyone asked, he would not hesitate to grab the person who asked and give them a good scolding.

Khalil was convinced he would find someone who shared his views on this matter. He simply couldn't believe anyone would enjoy wearing such inconvenient clothing.

About half an hour later, the car stopped, and the Grand Judge, who had shed his identity as a 'funeral guest', strode into the first floor of the banquet hall, only to find one of his jailers in the bright and spacious hall.

The latter stared at him, slightly dazed, as if he didn't recognize who he was. It wasn't until he walked over that he snapped out of his daze, quickly followed with his head down, and at the same time whispered, reporting all of Omega's actions over the past two hours.

The two entered the elevator one after the other, and Celestine's report continued until the very end.

The elevator slowly came to a stop, and the feeling of weightlessness dissipated. However, Khalil pressed the close button, preventing the door from sliding open automatically.

He turned his head and asked with a slightly serious expression, "Did he really say those things to Loka Aurelion?"

“Yes, sir,” the nun replied, her eyes darting around.

Khalil frowned, then suddenly softened his voice: "Are you feeling unwell today? Why are you behaving so strangely?"

“I’m fine, sir.” Sellersteen took a deep breath and finally decided to be honest. “I just think you look rather strange.”

Khalil remained silent for several seconds.

"In what way?" he asked, unusually cautiously yet rapidly. "Wrong clothes? Wrong style? Or is there some hidden meaning in this outfit? Tell me quickly, Celestine, while I still have some time to go back and change."

"No, no, none of those, sir, it's just you."

"What? What happened, Celestine? Explain yourself, okay?"

With a ding, the elevator doors slowly opened, revealing Roger Dorn standing expressionlessly behind them.

Wanshi glanced down at the two people inside the stairs, then slowly withdrew his hand from the button that had been pressing the door open. Without a word, he turned around and left.

“Rogge?” Khalil stared in astonishment at his retreating figure. “How could you—”

"—Oh God, by Chermoss!"

Holding two wine glasses and with his robe collar wide open, Fogrim walked over laughing.

"Is this still the Khalil I know? Ha!"

He laughed heartily, a faint blush rising on his fair face, clearly enjoying the pleasure of intoxication. But the smell emanating from the liquid in the two thick wooden goblets he held in his hands was enough to earn him the label of 'horrible'.

In fact, if one did not witness it with their own eyes, it would be hard to believe that the phoenix of Chemos would drink such a terrifying beverage.

But the fact remains: he was not only drinking, but he was drinking very happily, even taking the opportunity to tilt his head back and gulp down the liquor between words.

Caril turned around without making a sound and gestured to Celestine, who was holding his breath, signaling the latter to leave quickly—he had already recognized that this was probably Fenris mead brewed by Ruth herself.

Ordinary mead is already a deadly poison to mortals, but Ruth's craft brew, judging solely by its aroma, silently earned Caril's place on the list of deadly poisons. "If only my sense of taste hadn't returned," he thought regretfully.

"What's wrong with me, Fugen?"

"You? You're alright, but who made this outfit for you? Which tailor? Which family? He's a truly audacious genius!"

Khalil fell silent for a moment, then lowered his head and examined himself thoroughly from head to toe, but he was still completely baffled.

If Celestine's reaction could be explained by the fact that she had never imagined the somber and stern Grand Inquisitor would be in formal attire, then Fogrem's current glee could not be excused in the same way. The Chermos had seen him in formal attire before, so why was he laughing so heartily?
Of course, Khalil also had some suspicions that it was because he was drunk.
Therefore, Ruth's wine must be quite good; at least it can indeed make Primarchs feel 'drunk'—or a similar feeling of nerve paralysis.

“I don’t know either,” Khalil replied, barely managing to remain calm. “This dress, and all my other clothes suitable for various occasions, were chosen for me by skilled cloaks within the court.”

Foghrim didn't speak again, but he kept laughing. He leaned closer and patted Khalil's back affectionately, in a manner inconsistent with his usual style, before speaking loudly and clearly.

"Gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "Look here!"

Everyone present—except for Saint Gilles and Loga, who were having a long talk on the outer terrace—looked over, and upon seeing this, their expressions changed simultaneously. Some wore strange expressions, some couldn't suppress their laughter, and some even propped their cheeks up and turned their heads away.
Only Roger Dorn, this stubborn rock who had endured countless hardships yet remained unchanged, had a calm expression.

Of course, this may also be related to the fact that he was standing in a corner of the banquet hall, facing an oil painting.

He gazed intently at the landscape painting, as if he had never seen such an ordinary scene of blue sky and white clouds in his entire life.

Khalil stood there expressionless, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his posture stiff as if he were a resurrected mummy.

He admitted that he lacked some common sense about worldly life, but did the ceremonial robes take on a different meaning during his ten thousand years of self-imposed imprisonment? Or were the judges who selected his clothes playing a little joke on purpose?
He felt that neither was very likely, and after thinking it over, a name slowly emerged in his mind.

Makado.
Regardless of what the Grand Inquisitor was thinking when he silently uttered the name of one of his closest friends, the Chemos man, raising his glass, was about to reveal the answer through theatrical body language.

He spun around dramatically yet with remarkable grace, not spilling a drop of wine. His long hair fluttered in the wind, his eyes sparkled, and a smile played on his lips, impossible to conceal.

He bent down, looked directly at Khalil, and then slowly began to speak.

"Does Conrad know?"

"What do you know?"

“I know you plan to—” The Chermos man's lips curled strangely as he forced himself to continue. “—find him a legal stepmother?”

Khalil suddenly realized, but was still puzzled, so he asked, "You mean this outfit?"

“Yes.” Phoenix straightened up, gracefully opened her arms, and nodded slightly. “For nearly four hundred and eighty years, young men from wealthy and distinguished families who have not yet met their ideal partner or wish to remarry will subtly wear this style of formal attire. Generally speaking, if they are truly of good standing and not too unattractive, a waiter or butler will deliver a letter after the banquet.”

Khalil let out a long breath, casually tugged open his collar, and rolled up his taut sleeves.

Foghrim frowned. "What are you doing? This isn't how it's usually worn."

“I just picked out a dress on a whim, Fugen. I know absolutely nothing about these things, so thank you for explaining it to me. And now, I want to express my gratitude.”

The Chemos people turned and ran.

“Brothers! Firus! Conrad! Help me!” he shouted as he rushed toward a secluded terrace and locked the door from the inside.

Khalil stared at him expressionlessly, then slowly walked over. Outside the thick glass, Phoenix involuntarily took a step back. The temperature on the top floor of the high-rise was very low, seemingly sobering him up, so much so that beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Khalil raised his hands and drew the curtains on the terrace. Silence followed behind the heavy, deep purple fabric, then a series of thumping sounds.

"How could you do this!" someone shouted in the wind.

Khalil turned around and looked at the others.

"Does anyone want to help him?" he asked slowly, while continuing to roll up his sleeves—one jacket and one shirt, all taut, and he was doing this work with the patience of someone dissecting a human body. His movements weren't strange, but they always sent chills down your spine.

“No,” Felus Manus spoke first. “He’s getting a little carried away, Khalil.”

"Hey!"

Iron Hand remained expressionless and continued, "However, I don't think this can be entirely attributed to him. You should go find the person who provided you with this garment; that person is the real culprit."

"That's more like it! I forgive you!"

“Yes,” Khalil said expressionlessly. “It’s a truly despicable thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Iron Hand nodded without looking away. “How could anyone do such a thing? This is simply playing with your reputation.”

“But he wields immense power, and I’m afraid I don’t have the ability to make him suffer. Will you help me pursue justice for myself, Felus?”

Meeting the gaze of Khalil Lohals and the eyes of those around him—most notably the meaningful stare of Perturabo sitting beside him—the Medusa Lord, the unwavering and steadfast Gorgon, Felus Manus, slowly nodded.

Even if he already knew who this person was.

Khalil lowered his hands, revealing a warm and gentle smile that he had cultivated over decades of political experience—a smile that was utterly sincere and deeply moving.

“Thank you, Felus, I knew you were reliable,” he said slowly. “In that case, after this party is over, how about we find a new place for a second one? I think the fortress of that Olympian who didn’t bring his sister to the party would be quite nice; there are plenty of open spaces there, perfect for setting traps.”

The Olympian who hadn't brought his sister to the party stood up angrily and said coldly, "She's here! She's just on her way!"

(End of this chapter)